


Never Say Never

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, DID I MENTION FLUFF? BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT OF IT, Explicit Sexual Content (Not porn FYI but still...), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Separation (hate me all you want), The Author Regrets Nothing, also MUTUAL PINING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: On the subway, Clarke snaps a Polaroid of him before he can block the lens with his hand: His head is leant back, looking up and probably wishing that the top of the train was made of glass so he could see the star-speckled sky — he looks relaxed, dreamlike, as the soft orange light falls on his face.She loves this one.“Don’t you have enough photos of me?” he asks with no real heat. In fact, his voice is marked by a delicacy that makes her heart flutter.“You know I don’t. I’m going to plaster them on my ceiling.”(When Clarke's six years old, Bellamy's the boy in the tree, her best friend. At eighteen, she's not sure that she can call him that anymore, and of course that's when everything crumbles.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd love to say a huge thanks to Isabelle (@bellamymythology on Tumblr) for beta-ing this fanfic for me, taking care of my countless mistakes and leaving a bunch of lovely suggestions. Then, to Ine (@niylah on Tumblr) for being the most supportive bean as I was writing this. Lastly to Camille (@cupcakeblake on Tumblr) for not being pissed at me for postponing the writing of my Rome AU in favor of this. 
> 
> Without further comments, I hope that y'all enjoy this :)

**_ 2005-2007 - Chicago (IL) _ **

**__ **

The first time Clarke meets him, she is six years old and he’s the boy in the tree. Even though the beautiful crown of green leaves has him mostly hidden, shadows fall on his face, which is clearly turned skyward. Of course, he can’t be looking at floating, airy marshmallows in a cloudless sky, and there isn’t a single bird in sight. The simple mystery of what he’s admiring sparks the never-fading curiosity of her adventurous mind instantly and she isn’t prepared to give up before she’s given insight into the matter. 

As it turns out, she has to climb the tree to get any information out of him. “If you want to know, you have to come up here, Princess.” 

Perhaps he calls her that because of her clothing and her golden hair. Still, he’s about to learn that an oak has nothing on the floral-dress-defying Clarke Griffin, who’s secretly praying for the bark to ruin the fabric that makes playing so difficult.

“I’m not a princess. I’m an explorer, and my name is Clarke,” she informs him once she’s seated on the same thick branch as him. A tip of his head and a slight smile indicates that he thinks the new title suits her.

The sky-gazing boy’s name is _Bellamy,_ and the sound of it is foreign on her tongue, yet she decides that she likes it because it seems worthy of an explorer. Maybe he’ll agree to explore the world with her. After all, it’ll never be too vast for her to discover every corner or hold too many secrets for her to learn them all.

In the end, she’s right. He isn’t looking for birds or clouds. Instead, Bellamy admits that he’s looking at something that can’t be seen. “There’s an entire world up there… Have you ever heard of Mount Olympus?”

When she shakes her head, he starts to tell stories about Zeus, the ruler of the sky, his wife Hera, as well as all of the other gods and goddesses who each have their own special purposes. From the very first second, Clarke is struck by fascination, and at the end her blue eyes shine, brightened by the same excitement as his.

“There are more stories. My mom tells them to me every night." 

“Your mom sounds cool.”

Once it’s lunchtime, Bellamy has told her about everything about the gods of Mount Olympus, and Clarke realizes that Athena is her favorite. 

(She also realizes that Bellamy has a smile that could make the sun envious.)

 

From then, a friendship blossoms through the cracks in asphalt. It’s made of pillow forts, laughing until stomachs hurt and watching the stars hide at the break of dawn after they stay up all night. Barely a month has passed before the freckled, curly-haired boy has formed a pact with her: _To never let each other explore the secrets of the Earth alone…_

One of her fondest, most vivid memories of their friendship was when they tried to bake cookies for the first time using an easy-bake oven. Short version: They were burnt. Long version: They ate them anyway, so Abby Griffin snapped a picture of them on the couch to capture the pride on their faces and the burnt cookie crumbs at the corners of their mouths. 

The flower of their friendship has been blooming for two years when she draws him as Augustus, the emperor that he’s told her everything about. “It’s the best gift ever, Clarke!” he exclaims, throwing his arms around her, and as if that doesn’t show enough gratitude she finds a Post-it note stuck to her backpack the next day with a message written in blue sharpie.

_You are the most amazing friend I’ve ever had, Clarke_

  * _B (Augustus)_



 

 

* * *

 

 

**_ June 23, 2017 _ **

 

Inevitably, the years do pass, even if they seem more like days. As they grow out of childhood and are thrown into the chaotic world that is high school, Bellamy Blake is still in all of her favorite Polaroids. By now, they’re too old to _play_ , but her mother never questions who she’s meeting every time she leaves the house with a plastic container of leftover chicken Alfredo pasta.

“Hey, Beautiful.” He greets her with a bright grin, to which she responds with a chaste kiss to his freckled cheek. “You know you’re not supposed to visit me at work.”

At that, she simply rolls her eyes. “And you know that I won’t let you go hungry.”

Working in a library is risky for Bellamy, given that he often becomes too caught up in glorious literature, thereby forgetting basic needs like food and water. Luckily, Clarke knows him far too well and has him covered. “You have to take better care of yourself, Bellamy,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of worry as she runs her fingertip along the book spines. 

Ever since he was a boy, Bellamy loved to challenge her sassiness. This time, he does so by moving closer until she can count the bronze stars in the constellations across his cheeks. “Yes, Doc.”

His eyes smile at her before his lips do, and her breath catches in her throat as she places a hand on his shoulder. Glancing at her hand, Bellamy swallows and immediately attempts to hide it by breaking into laughter. Since it’s horribly contagious, Clarke does too as he moves away, allowing her to breathe again. 

“Seriously, don’t worry, Clarke. I got you for that.” 

“That’s what friends are for.” 

For a brief moment, it looks as if he’s going to frown, but he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales, giving her a book that he wants her to read because he knows that she’s not likely to leave, and tells her that he owes her ice cream, which she refuses to disagree with. 

Unlike her, Bellamy has to work to support his family, because his mother Aurora has been alone with him and his little sister, Octavia, since he was six years old. Even though she doesn’t think it’s fair, Clarke’s happy that he likes his job, but she never lets him feel like he has to do it alone. In spite of his weak protests, she puts away the book after reading three pages and begins placing books on the shelves with him.

“If my boss comes around…”

“Just say that you were helping me reach a book from the top shelf.”

“Clarke, you know very well that I can barely reach the top shelf myself.”

She chuckles. Bellamy’s only a few inches taller than her, probably due to the fact that his mother is around 5’3’’ and his father, who was from the Philippines, wasn’t much taller. Bellamy never met him, as he died in a car accident before he was born, and Aurora refuses to talk about him, which is why Bellamy doesn’t know much. 

Additionally, the bookshelves are pretty damned tall.

“Did I hurt your pride? If so, it was completely unintentional,” she muses, watching him arch an eyebrow.

“No, you didn’t, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Yesterday my boss told me to ‘stop flirting during work hours’ and I had to explain to her that you’re my best friend who brings me lunch and hangs around until my shift ends.”

For a while, she doesn’t know how to respond, even though it’s far from the first time that people have mistaken their relationship for a romantic one. Of course, you can’t really blame them considering that she and Bellamy don’t shy away from interlacing their fingers in public and teasing each other constantly in a way that apparently resembles flirting. 

“And she’s not going to suspend me from the library?” is what she ends up asking him. 

“I wouldn’t let her do that. You’re harmless.” 

She can’t resist a wolfish grin. “You know very well I’m not.” 

Because it’s something that she has proved over and over again through the years by climbing trees, making up mischievous plans (like stealing marshmallows from the cabinet) and initiating countless, intense pillow fights. Being a kid never stopped her from showing that she’s made of pure nerve. Sometimes it’s too much, if you ask him, like the time that she broke her arm after falling from a tree or when she held her breath for too long while teaching him to swim.

“I do, but as long as she doesn’t we’re good.”

She shares a smile with him like they used to share her cookies-and-cream chocolate — and, as always, she’s there when he places the last book on the shelf.

 

The footprints of their childhood are important to their friendship, which is why most of their inside jokes derive from cartoon marathons and why they always eat ice cream at midnight or in the morning. (Don’t ask).

Therefore, Bellamy is at her front door at 10:30 p.m. and they take the subway downtown on the quest to find ice cream, which is never difficult given that they always buy it from the same place. The flavors they pick, however, vary each time, and Bellamy’s are often a strange combination.

“Mint and blueberry? You’re the weirdest person I know,” Clarke remarks after he’s paid and they’re about to leave the shop. 

“You do realize I take no offense to that? Besides, it’s probably not as bad as you think. Here, have a taste.”

When he wiggles the plastic spoon carrying the ice cream in front of her, she just glances at it with skepticism, but then he says, “Come on, be a little open-minded,” and she has to roll her eyes before eating the bit of ice cream. 

“Could be worse,” she admits, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

Grinning, he throws an arm around her shoulders as they leave. “That’s my girl.”

They walk under the lights of Chicago as they finish their ice cream, chuckling around plastic spoons while stealing glances at the stars and each other _._ Some nights, they make their way to the rooftop of a short building, but today their final destination is the park. 

Bellamy suddenly notices that her favorite Starry Night shoes are becoming worn and insists that she spend the rest of the route on his back. He’s a dork in that way, but she finds it adorable, especially because he uses it to make her laugh as he sets into a run until they’re standing by the great bean sculpture. 

“Thanks for the ice cream and the ride,” she says once she’s on the ground again.

“Hey, you brought me chicken Alfredo. I think we’re even. Come on, I’ll follow you home before your mother sends a search party.”

On the subway, Clarke snaps a Polaroid of him before he can block the lens with his hand: His head is leant back, looking up and probably wishing that the top of the train was made of glass so he could see the star-speckled sky — he looks relaxed, dreamlike, as the soft orange light falls on his face. 

_She loves this one._  

“Don’t you have enough photos of me?” he asks with no real heat. In fact, his voice is marked by a delicacy that makes her heart flutter.

“You know I don’t. I’m going to plaster them on my ceiling.”

Smiling, he replies, “You can’t. We spent the entire summer last year painting it like the night sky. You’ll just ruin it.”

_Not when you look like a star, a beaming sun,_ she thinks, yet says nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

**_ July 6-7, 2017 _ **

 

Even though they’ve been best friends for twelve years, Bellamy can still surprise her, whether it’s by making pancakes in her kitchen on the morning of her eighteenth birthday or showing up at her front door with a bleeding cut by his temple. Her lips parting in shock, she doesn’t hesitate to place her hands on his cheeks and turn his head to look at the injury. “What happened?” 

But Bellamy doesn’t reply, only asks, his voice at the edge of trembling, “May I come in?” 

She steps aside with a nod and tries not to seem worried. Predictably, she fails as it seeps into her bones and she has to take his face in her hands again, closing the front door by pressing her back against it. “What happened, Bellamy?” she repeats, pouring more certainty into her voice, but in spite of that, she still doesn’t have any luck. Instead of asking again, she tells him to wait and goes into the kitchen to soak a cloth in some cold water.

With a careful hand, Clarke places her index finger underneath his chin to gently turn his face so that she can wipe the blood off. Despite how gently she presses the cloth to the cut, she still sees him wince. Furrowing her brow, Clarke attempts to meet his eyes, but it’s as if he knows that staring into the ocean of her eyes will make the truth come out, because he avoids her gaze, which he _never_ does, and she certainly doesn’t plan to let him get away with it. Overwhelmed by worry, Clarke touches her forehead to his as her hand remains resting on his cheek. 

“Bellamy, please...”

Once those words emerge from her throat, sounding more pleading than she’d intended, she feels him tremble, and until he speaks she has no idea what emotions caused it. Then he breathes raggedly, possibly afraid that the truth will break her. “Three pricks from my history class… They said some shit about you, and I guess anger got the better of me.” 

It hits her like an invisible brick wall, shaking her to the core and leaving her distraught. “Please tell me that you didn’t get in a fight because of me.” Maintaining eye contact, she allows her thumb to caress his cheekbone, travelling across all of the stars there. 

“No, I didn’t throw any punches, but I damn near bit their heads off and one of them took a swing at me. He’s a pretty big dude.” 

At that, her heart seems about to drown in a mix of sadness and anger; if she’d been there you’d have to hope the universe had mercy on those assholes. The emotions have taken over, stolen all of her words and placed them somewhere in her gut, where they are tightening themselves into a painful knot. All that she can say is, “Stay here. I have to get some rubbing alcohol for the cut. 

When she returns, she murmurs, “This will sting a little… You didn’t drive here, did you?” 

The idiot actually manages to smile through the pain at that. “You taught me better than that, Princess.”

“I’m not a princess, I’m an artist,” she states, returning his smile before asking, her voice careful, “What did they say about me, those guys?” 

Looking away again, Bellamy clenches his jaw and she can feel his chest rise and fall with the deep breath that he takes, swallowing his anger. “I don’t want you to know. Intelligent women intimidate them. Besides, it was all lies anyway.”

His tone begs her to not ask any further and she decides to listen, even if she still says, “You didn’t have to defend me.” 

“Did you think I was going to stand there quietly while they disrespected you?” As his dark brown eyes soften, so do his words. At this point, they’re practically a murmur that clings to the atmosphere of the two inches that remain between their lips. 

_(I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that._

_Like what?_

_Like I put the stars in the sky…)_

For a stupid split second, she thinks that this moment will turn the universe inside out, create shapes and colors that no one has seen before and light a fire so bright that it could force all shadows from the world. Then, she realizes that the power to make that moment is in their hands, and while she’s too afraid of it, he respects her too much to take the risk.

In spite of that, she allows her lips to press against the skin right below the cut — not once but _twice_ , causing him to tremble again. 

“You can sleep here if you don’t want to go home to your mother and sister with an injury like that.” 

“Thank you, Clarke.”

 

While he texts his mother, she goes upstairs to prepare his bedding, but soon finds herself shoving the mattress back into her closet and placing the spare duvet on her bed. Suddenly, she senses his presence, and sure enough he’s standing in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed. In response, she simply arches hers and begins to take off her jeans, causing Bellamy to look away sharply, as if a ghost yanked at his hair.

Once she’s slipped into some sleep shorts, she says, “You’re not sleeping on the floor when I have no way of knowing if that asshole fractured your skull or caused anything worse.”

“Clarke…” 

“Does it still hurt?”

He nods slowly, which gives her even more reason not to let him sleep in his usual spot. After a minute of silent hesitation, Bellamy gives up and walks to the bedside, but he still makes her turn her back as he takes his own pants off as if they haven’t seen each other in various states of undress before.

Then again, that mostly happened when they were a couple of careless kids.

In the end, she settles on the bed first and Bellamy joins her eventually. Luckily, her bed is queen-sized, so they’re not uncomfortably cramped. For a while, they quietly stare at the dark blue star-speckled ceiling that they painted together the previous summer. Right now, that seems like it was ages ago…

Smiling a little, Clarke turns to her side to watch him. She has almost all the lines of his body mapped from the countless hugs they’ve shared over the last twelve years, but there are still many that remain unexplored. Maybe one day... _No._ She shakes her head firmly, stopping her mind from going any further. If only her legs would listen too. They entangle with his easily in spite of the additional duvet and her breath catches in her throat as she starts to pull herself away. Then she feels his hand slip courageously up her spine, ending its journey by her shoulder.

“I’m okay, Clarke,” Bellamy murmurs, reassuring despite the way he gulps, probably due to the sensation of their bare skin touching and the fact that her knee is dangerously close to his crotch. “What about your parents?” 

“My mom will be home soon. I think I should tell her the truth, if you don’t mind. After all, it’s better than her thinking that you’re sleeping with me.” 

Technically, he _is,_ albeit in a different context. Nevertheless, his jaw slackens and she feels heat rise to her cheeks, most likely leaving them in the same shade as rose petals. All that she can do is hope that the dim light of her bedroom prevents him from noticing it. 

Five minutes later, the sound of keys being turned in the lock downstairs has Clarke moving out of the bed, “I’ll deal with her. Don’t go anywhere, and _don’t_ fall asleep.”

 

Halfway down the stairs, Clarke meets her mother’s gaze. Thankfully, her brown eyes haven’t lost their glow because of stress or exhaustion, which will make explaining this easier. Both of her parents are workaholics, and while they earn a lot of money, they’re barely home. Of course, it sucked — particularly when she was younger, but Bellamy managed to fill the space pretty well, making sure that she was never lonely. 

“Bellamy’s here…” Clarke starts, her voice lower than usual. When she moves closer, Abby quickly places a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter so that she can give her full attention to her daughter. Almost instantly, her eyes move to her legs, which are only covered by the little pair of sleep shorts, and Clarke curses herself for not thinking to put her jeans on before she went down.

“… In your room?”

“Yes, but it’s not like _that._ He…”

Noticing how Clarke’s voice cracks already, Abby’s gaze softens. “You sound worried. What’s going on?”

She takes a breath, preparing herself for the explanation while determined to make it as short as possible so that she can go back to check on Bellamy. “A guy at school punched him today, left a cut on the side of his head. I didn’t see it happen, but he just showed up here and I cleaned the wound, and... He says it still hurts, and I—”

As tears start to strangle her voice, her mother pulls her into an embrace, which allows her to cry. “He was defending me against their insults. And even though he didn’t punch anyone, one of them took a swing at him, and it’s _my_ fault.”

Abby cradles her head, replying reassuringly, “Of course it’s not your fault. If that guy punched Bellamy when he wasn’t being violent, it’s on _him._ Not you or Bellamy, but the person who couldn’t keep his fists in his pockets... You said that his head still hurts?”

Pulling back, Clarke nods while drying the remaining tears off her cheeks. Honestly, she loves her mother for being incredibly rational, especially at a time when she can’t. It reminds her that whenever Abby or her father is actually present, they do a damned good job at being her parents.

“Maybe we should take him to the E.R. Just to make sure that he’ll be okay.” Being certain that Bellamy’s injury is only superficial would make her a lot less worried, but her heart sinks to the bottom of her chest. “Mom, his family doesn’t have the money to pay for X-rays.” 

“Clarke, I’ll pay for him. When some guy punches my daughter’s best friend for defending her, of course I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that nothing happens to him.”

 

At first Bellamy tries to convince Abby that he can pay for the X-rays himself with his near-minimum wage from the library, yet she just raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. Obviously, there’s a good reason for that, which Bellamy luckily realizes in the end.

After spending hours in the local E.R. (mostly _waiting_ and staring at blank walls until they almost lose their minds), they can finally make the wonderful conclusion that Bellamy’s head injury _is_ only superficial, but he still returns to her bed to sleep over — amazingly, they manage to drift off while huddled together, feeling unquestionably fearless…

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Clarke rouses from sleep only to see the dark fabric of Bellamy’s favorite t-shirt, the one that smells like pine and summer’s rain. Startled, she quickly pulls back, realizing that their legs have entangled during the night, but frankly she doesn’t want to bother getting out of it. Terrifyingly, it actually feels like something she could get used to, if not _love…_

“Good morning, Beautiful,” Bellamy drawls, cracking one eye open to look at her, and her heart swells when she notices that the boyish glint has returned to his gaze. Then he lets his hand move some golden strands of wavy hair behind her ear, leaving Clarke to wonder whether she’s actually still dreaming. Within this moment — entangled sheets and limbs, sunrays and the scent of his cologne — Clarke feels as if she’s in another universe where a different story is being told.

It hits her that if it _was_ true, she wouldn’t want to go back… 

… But then she remembers the day that just passed: Bellamy showing up at her front door bleeding, having been _punched_ because he dared to defend her against a group of assholes. _The cut…_ Without thinking, Clarke reaches out to brush the skin underneath it using her fingertip, and although a small bruise has blossomed there and some dried blood lingers at its edges, Bellamy doesn’t even wince.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

He shakes his head, smiling softly like the morning sun. “No, not anymore.”

At that, relief settles in her heart, making a grin stretch across her face that beams brighter than the sunrise pouring through her sheer white curtains. For a blissful moment, they simply gaze at one another, vibrant blue holding earthy brown in a way that causes the world to stop spinning. The universe is no longer expanding; it’s shrinking, curling in on itself until they come together, the space between them dissolving.

Clarke isn’t sure how their noses ended up grazing or how her breasts are suddenly pressed against his chest, causing him to breathe hotly, every puff of air ghosting over her parted lips. 

“Princess, you’re killing me,” Bellamy croaks as her fingertips play with a dark curl of his hair that falls around the cut at his temple. In spite of his own words and her being able to feel exactly what they mean, he allows his fingertips to dance a trail along the back of her thigh.

Worrying her lower lip while chills form at the skin that he just touched, Clarke moves her thumb across his cheek and inches closer until…

“Breakfast!” Her mother calls from downstairs, reminding Clarke that it’s Friday, also known as the _one_ day when Abby doesn’t go to work until noon.

That single word evokes memories of sleepovers at her house, long nights of flashlights, whispering that left them falling asleep into their cereal bowls the next morning. Now, the young boy from her memories is pressed against her, which is far from uncomfortable, but she can feel his erection against her inner thigh, and all she can think is, _what the hell happened to us?_

He’s her _best friend._ She’s not supposed to want this.

“I’ll go downstairs first, so you can —” _Recover._

“Yeah…” The rawness of his voice sends blood rushing to her cheeks, making her think that she quite possibly needs some time to recover, too.

  

It’s an unusually quiet breakfast, mouthfuls of vanilla/blueberry pancakes providing their excuse for silence, but they still follow each other to school because not doing so would be like living on another planet. When Bellamy turned sixteen and earned the right to drive his mother’s car, he’d pick her up every morning so that she wouldn’t have to take the subway, and those car rides always led to funny conversations and jamming out to the horrible tunes on the radio.

The walk that follows, however, is mostly silent. Bellamy has his hands tucked away in his pockets and there’s a faint blush tinting his cheeks. Also, he can’t seem to stop clenching his jaw. Honestly, Clarke feels really bad for him and wishes that she could think of something to say that would make him less embarrassed about this morning, but her brain resembles a black hole at the moment, as her body has taken over. Her damned mind keeps replaying his fingertips on her thigh…

Ultimately, he’s the one who speaks first once they’re standing a few feet from the stairs that lead to the entrance of the school. 

“Clarke, about this morning, I’m —” 

She silences him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry —” Before she can finish the sentence, she realizes that she doesn’t have Bellamy’s attention; he’s staring over her shoulder, his gaze darkening with anger. Glancing toward whoever he must be looking at, Clarke lets Bellamy pull her a little closer. 

Three guys are walking towards them, all built the same, broad-shouldered and their arms resemble tree trunks. Jocks. From the look in Bellamy’s eyes, she knows that it’s _them,_ the pricks from his history class, and although she really doesn’t need confirmation, she asks him anyway. In response, he nods slowly, protectively tugging her closer.

This time, she’s going to defend _him._ Refusing to think too much about it, she lets her thumb travel along his jawline before she presses her lips to it, “Just play along…” She murmurs, praying that he’ll understand why he has to.

She presses her cheek against his as she feels his arms wrap around her waist. Telling herself that it’s only pretend, Clarke draws back, making it seem like she just placed some hot kisses to his neck. Although it’s far from convincing, the assholes clearly fall for it. 

“ _Honey,_ you know that the pussy you’re with can’t even take a tap to the side of his head, right?” 

Staring right at him while still holding onto Bellamy, Clarke replies, “Well, at least he’s getting more than the three of you _combined._ ” As her sassiness creeps through her smile, she can’t keep herself from continuing, her voice coated in fake sweetness, “So I’d suggest you fuck off.”

It takes a moment of silent gaping before they finally leave, and when Clarke turns her attention back to Bellamy, she finds his dark brown gaze wide.

“Clarke, you just made them hate you more.” 

Smiling especially because his hand is still resting on the small of her back, she replies, “The feeling’s mutual, so I don’t care… And _besides_ , it was worth it.” The last statement emerges from her mouth without permission as her fingertips play with the collar of his dark blue shirt.

When Bellamy manages to speak, his voice is slightly strangled, “… Are you still _acting,_ Clarke?”

For a minute, she’s too enchanted by how he glances at her lips to say anything, and when she finally realizes that perhaps she should, she also realizes that she’s going to be late for her first class. Therefore, she leaves him with a chaste kiss to his cheek and hopes that the universe will answer the question for her.

 

* * *

 

The same night, Clarke can’t stop thinking about it: Her body pressed against his, their skin touching under the covers and what would have happened if she’d been brave enough to kiss him. This time, her mother’s voice is drowned out by his hands in her hair, his lips against hers making her gasp and his fingers moving higher than her thigh.

_Looking at the artificial night sky on her ceiling, she thinks that the stars might hate her._

Unable to push Bellamy from her mind, Clarke feels her face turn almost unbearably hot; tears actually gather at the corners of her eyes, and honestly, it’s fucking _ridiculous._ After struggling with her desire for what seems like an hour, she tries to get herself off, but fails, as it only leaves her more breathless than before like she’s trapped inside herself and her own skin is killing her, burning from the lack of his touch. 

Frustration is rising in her chest when she notices her phone on the bedside table. Upon eyeing it for a short minute, she grabs it, opens her Messenger chat with him and types: _I’m thinking about you…_ But the hesitance of her thumb keeps the words from being locked inside a blue bubble, because she knows that once she presses ‘send’, it cannot be undone, and she doesn’t want to live with the regret that might very well follow. 

After all, it’s not certain that he was turned on by _her._ It could’ve just been one of those awkward morning boners that many guys experience, but then again if that was that the case, why would he tell her that she was killing him? None of this makes sense, and she’s not surprised, because fantasizing about a guy who’s been your best friend for twelve years is not logical.

And frankly, it scares the shit out of her…

 

* * *

 

**_ July 12, 2017 _ **

 

When they tell her the news her first reaction is denial _,_ “You must be joking” and a nervous grin as if to say ‘you better fucking tell me that this is a bad prank and do it _now,’_ but because they don’t, their facial expressions remaining serious despite the shadow of guilt, Clarke moves straight to the next stage, which happens to be throwing a tantrum like a six-year-old, slamming doors and screaming bloody murder.

“How could you do this to me?! My whole _life_ is here!”

_Bellamy_ is here… 

“Sweetheart, I’m sure—” her mother tries to say in a tone that reveals that she knows she’ll be cut off.

“Don’t _Sweetheart_ me. Instead, tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do in _New York —_ Tell me that us moving isn’t entirely for _your_ benefit. Oh, and don’t fucking say that you had no choice, because you did. You could’ve told me earlier, but you chose not to because you’re both so selfish and you knew that I’d put up a fight. You spend half my childhood working and then you feel like you have the right to force me to move away from _my_ friends, _my_ dreams and _my_ future _._ ”

“Clarke…” This time it’s her father who tries, and he used to be her weakness, the one who could always reason with her when she was upset no matter what the problem was, but not now. Not anymore. 

“Dad, stop. This is the cruelest thing you could possibly do to me and you know it.” She can barely look at her parents, tears of fury streaming down her cheeks like a ruthless waterfall. Her whole body trembles; it is a volcano about to erupt, a mountain of fire and rage. She wishes that she was one of the goddesses that Bellamy compared her to when they were kids so that she had the power to change this.

Not a single word emerges from her parents, most likely because they know nothing they could ever say would make the situation any less horrible for her. Instead, they watch her cry soundlessly because she stays there to torture them with her tears, which might seem terrible, but she wants them to know exactly how much pain they’ve caused, wants them to stare right at it. 

Once all the tears have dried out, she wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve and says, “Good. I’m going out for the night, and you can’t stop me.”

Her rebellious teenage phase is _now,_ and she will give them hell.

“Yes, we can,” replies Abby. “You’re not going out when you’re this angry. I’ll bolt the door if I have to.”

  

Fuming, Clarke spends the rest of the night in her room, switching between two moods, anger and sadness, until she doesn’t feel human anymore. In the end, that manages to scare her into trying to calm down. Listening to her favorite tearjerking playlist, Clarke reaches for the stuffed bear under her bed, the one that Bellamy gave her for her seventh birthday.

Somehow, she has to find a way to tell him. She’s moving to New York in three weeks, yet has absolutely no say in the matter. For the first time in twelve years, she’ll have to leave him, and — may the universe forbid it — it might be permanent. She might never see him again.

_How do you say such a thing to a person who has always been there? To a person you never want to lose?_

Caressing the ear of the stuffed bear, Clarke starts crying again, but these are the kind of tears that really _hurt,_ the ones that tell you that your heart has shattered to pieces that can do nothing except lay at the bottom of your stomach.

And as if that isn’t horrible enough, the song that flows from her headphones goes:

_I know now, just quite how_

_My life and love might still go on_

_In your heart, in your mind_

_I'll stay with you for all of time_

* * *

**_ July 17, 2017 _ **

 

It’s been almost a week of scowling at her parents and eating dinner in her room before Clarke feels like she _has_ to tell Bellamy as quickly as possible. However, she ends up spending at least ten minutes looking at the 712 characters that make up her text message before deciding to delete everything and rewrite it: _I need to talk to you. Can you come over?_

Of course, her parents aren’t home, because being home for them lately has been like being in the same house as a hostile animal. Clarke knows that freezing them out won’t change anything, but she can’t bring herself to talk to them, to show them kindness when they didn’t even do the bare minimum for her: Give her time to say a proper goodbye.

Now, this will have to do… And she hopes it’s enough.

Almost instantly, he texts her back that he’ll be there as soon as possible, but Clarke quickly realizes that simply staring out of the window is making her lose her mind, so she settles on the bed to look at the constellations on her ceiling. The image of Bellamy in her mind is clear as day, which makes it easy to find patterns that resemble those on his cheeks, but the realization that she might forget exactly how he looks feels like a knife to her heart.

When he enters her room about half an hour later, Clarke’s sitting at the edge of her bed.

“Sorry I couldn’t come earlier. I had to help Octavia with some math homework, although I’m pretty useless myself.”

Feeling a lump grow in her throat to fill it like water, making it seem as if she’s drowning, Clarke can’t respond, which is a warning sign that he immediately picks up on. “I thought that would make you laugh… What’s going on?”

Even though she opens her mouth to tell him the truth, no sound will emerge. That’s until he kneels in front of her to take her trembling hands in his. For years, they’ve fit together perfectly, intertwined with each other despite their many differences. She never would’ve thought that anything would be able to force them apart. 

“I’m moving… to New York.” 

At first, he only blinks, but then his jaw slackens and he pulls her up to stand before him. Placing a hand on her cheek to make sure that her eyes are locked on his, Bellamy asks, “Why?” Even though he only utters that one word, it’s breaking already. Clarke’s not surprised, because his heart is big enough to fit the entire world’s oceans and she has undoubtedly carved her way into it over the years. 

“My dad’s engineering company’s moving there in three weeks, and they didn’t tell me until recently, but apparently I still don’t have a choice… I’m so sorry, Bellamy.”

Judging from how his entire face falls, those words make him fully understand that this will lead to a separation. She’s moving away to a place where he won’t be, and their relationship will have to stretch across state lines — then, even if it does survive, he still won’t be able to just hold her. Maybe it’s this realization that pushes him forward, has his arms wrapping around her waist. The safety of his embrace allow her to break, crumble while her tears soak the material of his shirt, and not many seconds have passed before he shatters, too. 

For what seems like an eternity, they stand there, trying to shield each other from the winds of the inevitable, the memories that threaten to break the ground underneath their feet. Finally, it seems as if the storm has settled, and now it’s the calm _._ It spreads from Clarke’s heart to her mind, making the confession stumble out of her mouth. 

“I want you to be my first…” she whispers into his ear, causing him to pull back slightly. 

“What?” 

When she simply repeats the words, biting her lower lip, Bellamy’s eyes widen a little. “Clarke, are you really asking me to… Why?” From his voice, she can tell that his words come from a place of confusion, not opposition.

Still, she sighs a little as she explains, “Because I love you, I _trust_ you and you’re not a jerk… I don’t wanna lose my virginity to some jerk.”

It’s only because Bellamy blinks that she realizes that she has never expressed her love for him out loud before, but to her utter relief he chooses not to comment on it. Instead, he actually manages a small smile before he admits, “I don’t want my first time to be with an asshole either.” 

_Oh…_ She should’ve figured that Bellamy hasn’t had sex before in spite of being nineteen years old. After all, he’s always been too busy with work and family to establish a romantic or even sexual connection to anyone. With that thought in mind, she mirrors his smile. It feels good. She can’t remember the last time that she smiled.

“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” is all she says before he cups her face in his warm hands and moves closer until the tips of their noses graze, lips hovering inches from each other in sheer nervousness. If they touch, maybe the whole universe will fall apart…

It doesn’t, though. In the second their lips meet, stars form behind her eyelids, twinkling blissfully. Holding onto him, Clarke finds herself grinning against his mouth. They’ve never kissed before, not even when they were a couple of careless children, which makes his attempt to deepen the kiss a little sloppy at first, too eager, but it doesn’t take them long to grow used to it, and soon they have each other’s movements memorized, which makes everything easier.

Bellamy breaks away eventually, causing her to pout until he kisses her neck. When she sighs, he pauses for a beat, startled. After all, he probably never thought that he’d get the chance to pleasure her like this. Luckily, it only seems to spark his confidence as he places his hands on the back of her thighs and _lifts_ her off the ground like she’s a mere feather, but she supposes she is in comparison to the weight of the world that he usually carries on his shoulders. _A modern Atlas._  

Clarke barely has time to wrap her legs around his waist for support before he puts her down at the top of the desk, where he captures her lips once more, pouring more passion into this kiss. It creates sparks in the pit of Clarke’s chest, has her slipping her hands underneath the fabric of his t-shirt and trailing them along his spine. 

“Want me to take it off?” he breathes against her lips.

“Yes, please, and your pants, too.”

“Don’t you think you’re getting slightly greedy now, Princess?” Even as he asks the question, he pulls the dark green shirt over his head, revealing his upper body to her for the first time, and Clarke finds that it takes an incredible amount of effort not to gasp at the sight. Instead, her lips part slightly as she reaches out, allowing her fingertips to splay across his ribcage. 

“I’m not a princess,” she murmurs, pressing a trail of kisses along his collarbone. “I’m an explorer.” 

“Well, I can’t argue with that, but luckily I am, too.” With that, he begins to unbutton her sheer white shirt. “You know, I could see the blue lace through this from the moment that I walked in here. I’m sure it nearly killed me.”

The smile that she sends him is mischievous. “I’m glad that it had the intended effect…”

Once again, Bellamy can only blink in response, rendered speechless by surprise. After a few long seconds, he says, “Really?”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke pulls him in for a kiss. “I may or may not have been thinking about you since that morning in my bed.”

At last, Bellamy manages to open the final, tricky button of Clarke’s shirt and gently places his hands on her shoulders to slide the fabric off, but then seems to change his mind, as he lets the shirt hang open to flow beautifully around her curves when he pulls her from the desk and twirls her around slowly once she’s standing.

“You’re such a dork, Bellamy,” she teases affectionately, a blush creeping into her cheeks.

“And you’re gorgeous, but _I’m_ not complaining.”

He beams at her, the familiar boyish grin stretching across his face and shining through his eyes, making them resemble earth touched by sunlight. Then, he reaches to unclasp her bra, which has her trying to negotiate a deal: “How about you take something off first? A piece of clothing for a piece of clothing?”

“That sounds great, Clarke, although technically I haven’t taken any clothes off you yet, so it’s still my turn… I’ll remove my socks, though.” As he does that, Clarke rolls her eyes affectionately at his sassiness because that happens to be a quality that they’ve always shared, a way for them to challenge one another. 

His fingers soon turn to the straps of her bra, moving them down her arms, but it looks very much like he braces himself, closing his eyes briefly, before he actually takes it off her, “That’s quite a nice bra,” he decides, then tosses it to the side and Clarke has to laugh.

Because he’s a good man, Bellamy tries not to stare, softening his gaze as he looks at her, yet she still feels a blush settle within her cheeks, because he seems to be admiring her like a painting, a masterpiece that he’s too afraid to touch. Taking a step forward to kiss him, Clarke wordlessly reassures him that she won’t break or disappear in front of him. She might no longer be the girl from his childhood memories, but age has not withered her, and it certainly hasn’t driven them apart.

Deepening the kiss, Bellamy finally places his warm hands on her ribcage, allows his thumbs to brush along the swell of her breasts, and the delicate touch has her shaking a little as the butterflies in her heart flutter their wings at the same time, causing a small earthquake in her chest.

Dazed, Bellamy lets her remove his belt but takes care of the pants himself when her hands fumble with the button, prompting her to laugh nervously against his mouth.

The blanket covering Clarke’s bed is the same dark blue shade as the midnight sky, so when she’s splayed on it below him, her hair forming a golden orb around her face, Bellamy doesn’t think that any goddess could compare to her. She _is_ one, and she’s special…

“You’re not going to take it off?” She asks once his nose has grazed the sheer fabric of her shirt for the third time as he kisses her neck, forming paths of flowers as well as fire across her skin with his lips, and she wonders how that’s possible. 

“You wanted me to like it.” His voice is not far from smug. “I do, so it’s staying on… for now.” At that, his smile grows to a soft grin and his fingertips draw random patterns her stomach. It appears as if the contact disturbs his confidence, because it turns tentative. “I can touch you, right?” 

If Clarke didn’t know him better than anyone, she would’ve undoubtedly thought the question irrational, but through the twelve years that he has been an important person in her life, she has come to understand that underneath the rough exterior, he is as soft as the rain-soaked earth. Sometimes it’s too much, but fortunately she knows just how to shake him out of it: By teasing him, preferably in a way that renders him speechless. 

That’s why she deadpans, “No, Bellamy. I just want you inside me right now,” to which he responds by cocking his eyebrows and sucking a kiss onto her right breast that makes her gasp involuntarily. Then he moves down her body, planting kisses like seeds in a garden, and the flowers bloom as soon as his lips leave the patch of skin. Soon, they form a field of vibrant colors on her stomach and ribcage, but it’s spreading to her lower body, stealing her breath. 

“You told me once or twice that you were thinking of getting a tattoo,” Bellamy comments casually, as if he doesn’t end the sentence by kissing her inner thigh. The sensation makes the stars on her ceiling fall around her into her hair, onto her heart, and she has to take a moment to gather herself before she replies.  
“Yes, but I’m not sure where I want it to be… Do you have any suggestions?” 

At her question, Bellamy takes his mouth off her thigh and she nearly whines. Smiling, he reestablishes eye contact before moving his index finger along the skin right by her second rib, a few inches below her breast, “I think this would be a great choice, but I think it might hurt quite badly.” 

“Whatever… I’m tough.”

“Yeah, you are,” he agrees, smiling as he kisses her, but instead of keeping it chaste, he deepens it with the tip of his tongue, making it their hottest kiss yet. For a minute, they make out like the teenagers they are, unfazed by the slight sloppiness of it. Clarke realizes that he tastes like black coffee on a Sunday morning, although she wishes that he tasted of _forever_.   

When Bellamy said that he wasn’t going to take off the shirt any time soon, he meant it; instead he removes her panties, takes more than a few moments to collect himself before moving to finally make the fabric disappear from her overheated skin, which leaves her completely bare, blushing like a rose under his soft dark brown gaze.

“Why are you not naked? It’s unfair,” Clarke says, allowing her hands to map the muscles in his back and arms. Unless he uses his little sister as a weight, she has no idea what he did to get them. He works in a damn library, how the hell did he become so ripped? All that she knows is that she’s not about to complain. 

Simply humming against her mouth, Bellamy ignores her question to move down her body again and kiss her everywhere except from where she wants him the most, and she’s pretty sure that he’s doing it on purpose to torture her, as his mouth practically ghosts around her sex. She’s two seconds away from telling him to pull his shit together when he says, his voice rough, “Do you have a condom? I have one, but it’s in my backpack and I’d rather not leave the bed.” 

“Top drawer.”

“And they’re not expired or anything?” 

Clarke frowns at him, “They shouldn’t be. I bought them yesterday.”

Once that last part comes out of her mouth, she winces. Well, if he hadn’t yet fully understood that she wanted to have sex with him, he does now. Who else would she be buying condoms for?

If she hadn’t been there to help him, it would’ve certainly taken Bellamy ten minutes to open the wrapper with his trembling hands, but all the awkwardness and nervousness of the preparation evaporate as soon as he starts to push inside her slowly, allowing her time to adjust, even asking not once but _twice_ if it hurts: the first time being out of plain decency and the second time being out of worry because she makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat that he hasn’t heard before. 

“Bellamy, it doesn’t hurt. It feels really good.” When she looks at him through half-lidded eyes, she notices that he’s blushing and slack-jawed. She hasn’t seen him like this before, but she instantly realizes that he has never looked better. 

The actual sex doesn’t even last half as long as the foreplay did, but it’s still the longest that they’ve ever been together without talking at all. Within minutes, they’re both panting and his thrusts — which started out as torturously slow — now mirror her breathing, fast and slightly hard, desperate.

Despite the passion of it all, they only understand the reality of what they just did in the moments after he comes apart and they’re left clinging to each other in a mess of sweat and awe. 

“Fuck,” he manages, still trying to catch his breath. “We…” Leaving that word to hang in the new atmosphere they have created in her bedroom, Bellamy rolls off of her, and she would’ve whimpered at the loss of contact if he hadn’t immediately pulled her into his chest. For a few minutes, they only have enough energy to cuddle, careful fingertips dancing across damp skin. It’s just them holding onto each other in silence, and Clarke has never experienced anything more relaxing.

After yet another minute has passed, Bellamy asks, “Do you want to put your clothes on?” As if he half expects this to end like a casual hookup: them dressing and him leaving like nothing different has happened. Judging from his tone of voice, he doesn’t want it to go like that, but he’s asking anyway, just to be respectful. 

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

For obvious reasons, she never thought she’d feel this way, but _being naked with Bellamy_ is amazing. The boyish grin that he tries to suppress makes him glow like a freckled bronze masterpiece. [Note to self: _Draw Bellamy like this, capture this moment. Keep it somewhere safe — like your heart._ ] 

“Imagine if your parents came home right now. They’d kill me,” he says and it sounds serious, but he can’t stop smiling at her. Absent-mindedly wrapping a dark curl of his hair around her finger, Clarke chuckles. 

“They won’t. They’re avoiding me because I’ve been giving them hell for the last week. Being under the same roof as me has been like living with a fire-breathing dragon.” 

“I bet you’re terrifying,” he drawls flirtatiously while pulling her in for a kiss. Upon deepening it, burying her hand in his hair, Clarke feels his hand slide to her ass under the covers, and even though it feels good, there’s another place that she wants him to touch even more.

Therefore, she builds up the courage to say, “You can touch me _there,_ if you want to…” Hoping that he understands where she means. Since he swallows hard enough for her to see his Adam’s apple bob, she guesses that he does. Once he — after a moment of hesitation — starts to move his hand further down, Clarke decides to add, “And please, Bellamy… Just do what you want for once without apologizing for it.”

Evidently, those words stick with him, because his hand waits by her inner thigh for her to spread her legs further, then he shamelessly slips a finger inside her, crooking it slightly until it hits the spot that she’s never quite been able to reach. He’s careful, making sure that the sounds that emerge from her throat are of pleasure and not pain, and in return she makes sure to have her mouth close to his ear so that he can hear how he unravels her, one moan after another. Once he’s brought her over the edge, he kisses her softly and patiently waits for her to calm down before pulling his finger out of her. Nuzzling her cheek, he offers her a mischievous smile, but she’s too breathless to form one in return.

“How did you do that?”

At her question, his brow furrows in confusion. “You don’t know?” 

Blushing, Clarke looks down for a moment before admitting, “I know _how,_ I just haven’t been able to do it myself. I’ve tried, but…” 

The emotion that flashes across Bellamy’s face at the realization looks an awful lot like _pity,_ and it causes her to frown at him, but he’s too busy thinking to notice. When he says, “Give me your hand,” it hits her, leaving her slightly dizzy. _Oh God…_ He’s going to _teach_ her.

As soon as he’s holding her hand, he easily guides it to where his was a few minutes ago, and she slips a finger inside herself, allowing him to lead it to the right spot. “It’s that small bundle of nerves right there… You feel it?”

She nods frantically. “Yeah.” 

“Then you just… rub.” He sounds completely _wrecked,_ albeit in the sexiest way possible, and who could blame him? Just a few weeks ago, he told his boss that his relationship with Clarke was completely platonic — now, he’s naked in her bed, teaching her to get herself off. “Don’t be too aggressive, though. It’ll just hurt, and if you want to speed up the process, think of something that turns you on.”

Bellamy moves his hand from hers at that, which has her opening her eyes to look at him, her gaze shameless when she says, “Like you?”

He chokes on nothing, suddenly blushing again, but he quickly gathers himself again and manages a slight grin. “If you want…” 

Afterwards, they slip into silence again and tears gather at the corners of Clarke’s eyes when she realizes that the inevitable is approaching: the goodbye that she never thought she’d have to say, which will likely shatter the earth beneath her feet like a terrible force of nature that wants to swallow her whole.  

It’s Bellamy who finally says, his voice dominated by reluctance, “I should go before your parents come home. I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

And in spite of how much Clarke really doesn’t want him to leave, wishes he could stay the night since it would allow their uniquely beautiful bubble of warmth to stay intact, she knows that she has to let him. Nevertheless, next to her, he’s the Lucida, the brightest star in a constellation; he is made of galaxies as they wrap around his skin, fold into his edges, the sharp as well as the soft ones. No matter what happens, she will never forget him.

They help each other get dressed, mostly because it allows for stolen kisses and touching. In his backpack he finds a dark gray hoodie, one of his favorites, but instead of putting it on, he simply clutches it in his hands before slipping it over her head. The soft fabric hugs her body and encloses her in his scent: _pine, books and black coffee…_  

“I want you to have this. It looks better on you.”

Stunned, Clarke kisses him to stop herself from saying that he doesn’t need to give it to her. Not only does she _want_ it, she knows that he would never take it back. Instead, she is struck by the need to offer him something of hers in return, and therefore she unclasps the silver chain necklace that she’s wearing, the one with the ‘C’ charm. Smiling through the tears that have settled in her blue eyes, Clarke fastens it around his neck, although it’s a bit difficult because he kisses her while she’s trying to do so. 

“You can take it off whenever you want to woo someone else.”

When Bellamy looks at her then, the thousand different shades of brown in his eyes look broken, as though the galaxies inside his heart are losing their stars. Exhaling from the pain of it, he embraces her, murmuring, “I love you, Clarke,” and as if that doesn’t ruin her enough, he continues, “It will always be you.”

_Always you… Even if I never see you again._


	2. Chapter 2

**_ September 8, 2022 - New York City (NY) _ **

 

She remembers him as a beacon of light, a bright star within her reach. He made loving life easier, stuffing it with simple joys, with laughter and hugs. In all of her favorite Polaroids, he’s there, next to her or alone but looking at her through the lens, his dark brown eyes full of amused sparks.

Last week, she found an old one in the pocket of a pair of worn jeans, and because she remembered exactly how it was taken on the subway to capture a known realist in a dreamlike state, Clarke decided to post it to Instagram. 

[Caption: _I fucked myself over when I left you…_ ] [Tags: _I hope you see this, I hope you’ve forgiven me_ ]

If Bellamy has any form of social media, he’s certainly good at hiding it. No Facebook, Twitter, Instagram — Not even as much as a freaking YouTube profile where she would be able to stalk his taste in music and other forms of entertainment. Nothing… It’s as if Bellamy Blake, the boy in all of her favorite memories, has disappeared off the surface of the Earth, and frankly it feels hopeless.

Maybe he’s living his life, happily not caring about how she’s doing; maybe he’s moved on, found someone who’s even more special to him than she ever was, the necklace that she gave him long-forgotten, ruined in a Laundromat or something. The thought devastates her, but also makes her feel guilty because _he was never fucking hers._ She has no right to expect him to still love and miss her. It’s been five years, damn it.

It’s been five years, and she hasn’t stopped wearing his hoodie on rainy nights of Netflix and hot chocolate. In the end, it’s because it makes her feel close to him, because she doesn’t think that he will ever be near her again…

… Until he _is._

 

Fall mornings are so much better when they’re spent in the bookstore. Warming her hands on a mug of tea, Clarke lets herself be enchanted by the way that the raindrops gather on the window before they begin to race. Sometimes, they collide and morph together to continue their journey as one…

When she first feels the lightest pressure of fingertips on her shoulder, she thinks that lack of sleep is causing her to imagine things. Therefore, she offers no further attention to it, but then two familiar words spoken in a _very_ familiar voice shake her to the core. 

“Hey, Beautiful…”

_No. There’s no fucking way._ Her whole body freezes then thaws a second later, which sends chills down her spine, but more than anything it makes her heart sob. For a moment, she’s too afraid to look, because her logical mind tells her that she will be faced with the sight of another couple who happily bumped into each other. _Happily. Happy. If it’s him, maybe she could be too. Maybe that’s what scares her._

It _is_ him…

He’s gotten more muscular and his hair is a little messier than she remembers, but _it’s really him._ A living, grinning masterpiece right in front of her and she can’t believe it. Nearly knocking over her tea mug, Clarke gets to her feet and runs at him, decides to go full-on Nicholas Sparks because this might all be a dream and she might as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

Only, it’s not a dream. She realizes this when she crashes into him and he doesn’t dissolve into smoke. Instead, he wraps his arms around her with such force that he manages to lift her a few inches off the ground.

“ _Bellamy…_ ” When he puts her down, they’re beaming at each other, her glow silver like the moon while his is golden like the sun. For years, he’s been too far away for her to reach, and she could do nothing except hope that one day, the most unnatural, inexplicable thing would happen and they would meet again. “What are you doing in New York?” 

Unable to stop grinning, he replies, “I got a job.”

She blinks, taking a second to understand what that means: He’s not just here on a short visit or holiday. No… He’s here to _stay_. Can this be real? If not, it’s an unnecessarily long and cruel dream.

“Really?” is all that she can manage, pretty much speechless, since the sight of him as well as the possibility of _forever_ is too much to process. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still holding onto the small of her back, Clarke would be afraid that she might pass out.

“Yes, at the Historical Society Museum.” 

“Are you kidding me? That’s amazing, Bellamy!” 

As he appears to be speechless, she asks the question she’s been dying to know since she laid eyes on him. “How did you find me?”

Shrugging, he fidgets with something on his neck. At first she thinks it’s a scratch, but it’s not. It’s _her necklace,_ which he is still wearing, charm and everything. _Fuck._ Suddenly, she finds herself stuck in that five-year-old memory of clasping it around his neck. Tongue darting out to lick his lips, Bellamy says, “I have a weird feeling that this is secretly a lucky charm. After all, trying to find you was like trying finding a diamond underneath tons of ash… But hey, I did it… _somehow._ ”

She doesn’t know what surprises her more: that Bellamy just compared her to a diamond or the fact that he’s been looking for her, for God knows how long.

In the end, after staring at him in awe for what feels like an eternity, Clarke abandons her pumpkin spice tea in favor of coffee with Bellamy.

 

On the way to the cozy coffee shop where she works part-time, they turn into teenagers again — as if stepping into the soft rain takes them back in time. The euphoria that thrives in her heart has her giggling when they hopelessly attempt to shelter each other and Bellamy pulls her into his side to express his worry for her Converse.

“Princess, your shoes are getting wet.”

“So what?” She laughs, trying not to envy him for wearing a hoodie. God, she wishes that she’d worn his today, but it’s reserved for nights only. “I have a hairdryer…”

“Ingenious, Clarke.”

Once they’re safe from the rain, having entered the coffee shop, Clarke learns that Bellamy still likes his coffee black, but to her joy his sweet tooth hasn’t disappeared either. Therefore, they decide to split a giant chocolate chip cookie. Turns out, sugar and caffeine is the best way to start catching up. 

She tells him about NYU, chuckles when he guesses that she’s an art major just as she’s about to say it. Of course, it shouldn’t surprise her since Bellamy spent twelve years — literally half of his life — watching her fill one notebook after the other with everything from doodles to pieces that could have been painted by Monet.

The whole time, his warm gaze stays on her, as if his eyes are only now remembering her: the way the golden waves of her hair frame her face, the ocean of her eyes and the beauty mark right above her lip.

Their eyes have been dancing, _waltzing,_ for at least five minutes when Clarke has to ask, “Is there a _special_ someone in your life right now?”

At that, his smile softens, as does his eyes. “No, there isn’t… Do you…?” For some reason, he sounds nervous, as if her asking isn’t enough to convince him that she is indeed single. Shaking her head, she notices the relief as it flashes across his face. 

Then she says, thinking that she might as well get it out of the way, “I had someone, though. A year ago… Lexa. We dated for about nine months. It was a good relationship in spite of the many things that we really didn’t understand about each other. Eventually, she was accepted at an art school called Parsons, in Paris, so we broke it off… We still talk sometimes, although she has a new girlfriend. Costia, I think… Sorry, I’m rambling, but the point is —”

“You’re bisexual. Don’t worry, I’ve known for years.” 

Her jaw damn near drops to the floor and her eyebrows furrow in surprise. “You have?”

Breaking a piece off the cookie, Bellamy sends her a lopsided smile that instantly makes her relax. “Clarke, I’ve known you liked girls since we were teenagers. It was never an issue and it still isn’t… I’ll tell you something. In college, I was never in a serious romantic relationship, but I did have quite a few casual sexual ones… And they weren’t exclusively with women.”

Before she can think of anything to say, he continues, “I identify as pansexual, even though labels don’t matter much in my world.”

Happy for him, happy for herself and for _them_ all at once, Clarke simply raises her coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that. Pride.” 

“Pride,” he echoes, clinking his cup against hers.    

  

Darkness begins to fall, which just makes the coffee shop cozier. The fairy lights are turned on, leaving Bellamy’s facial features bathed in something akin to starlight. Right now, she feels like an eighteen-year-old girl again, giggling at his occasional dad jokes and blushing when he builds up the courage to hold her hand.

The sensation is familiar, even if his fingers are more calloused than she remembers. Running her thumb along his palm, she maps the new textures there until the sound of his voice catches her attention. 

“My heart broke when you left…” 

At that, sadness settles in her chest like an unwanted shadow, and she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. _I’m here…_ But she understands that all of the touches in the world won’t bring back the five years they’ve lost. 

She vividly remembers being eighteen, naked and sobbing into the sheets after that last phone call. As it turns out, having sex led to a different kind of need, a desire for affection that they couldn’t give each other over the phone. They tried, of course, but they were too young, too sexually awkward…

_… And too damn in love with each other._  

“Clarke? What are you thinking about?” 

Looking at him, she lowers her voice when she says, “Just our failed attempt at phone sex, but we’re not talking about that _here._ ” 

Surprisingly, Bellamy doesn’t even blink. He simply takes a sip of his coffee and agrees, “Another time, another place.”

“Such as my apartment?”

As soon as that question, loaded with suggestion, has left her mouth, Clarke wants to slam her forehead into the table repeatedly. They’ve only just reunited a few hours ago and she’s already trying to seduce him back into a sexual relationship. _For fuck’s sake, Griffin. Pull yourself together._

Funnily enough, Clarke has found her inner Raven Reyes voice and begun to scold herself for being so blunt just as she walks up to their table accompanied by a smiling Harper. For a moment, Clarke’s relieved, ready to introduce him to them, but then she remembers _the pact._

Her unapologetic gaze trained on Bellamy, Raven asks before Clarke can stop her, “Hello… Anything that _tempts_ you?” Fortunately, he just furrows his eyebrows, glancing at Clarke just before she shakes her head frantically at her friends. 

“Girls, there’s no need to run a douchebag-check on this one… This is _Bellamy._ Bellamy, meet Raven Reyes and Harper McIntyre, my friends and coworkers.” 

Then, she quickly clarifies the meaning of _douchebag-check,_ which was created specifically because of Clarke’s bad luck with dates, particularly men. In order to save her from any potential fuckery, Raven and Harper always approach her date and flirt with them, and if they flirt back, Clarke knows that there’s no need to plan a second rendezvous. Frankly, it’s usually very convenient since it saves her a lot of time, but right now it’s awkward. 

“Wait, you’re _the_ Bellamy? Clarke has told us everything about you,” Harper says, as if Clarke isn’t embarrassed enough already.

Instantly, Bellamy looks at her, flustered. “Everything?”

Quickly, Clarke rushes to defend herself by reassuring him, “Not in-depth detail.” It’s the truth, luckily; even if she has told her friends the most important things, it has mostly been about their countless unforgettable memories and not so much about the sex. In spite of that, Raven sends her a look, proud and surprised: _You lost your V-card to this guy, Griffin?_ And Clarke can hear the whistle that follows.

She wants to tell Raven her first time was good, but not because of Bellamy’s looks. No, his heart is what made all of the difference — his never-ending patience, his kindness and understanding. However, after thinking about it, she realizes that no one else would be able to fully grasp this, since they will never know him the way that she does, the way she _did._

_How much has he changed?_ Right now, there doesn’t seem to be any significant differences in his personality, but then again they’ve only just reunited. There is one thing that she’s absolutely certain of: She’s still an explorer, and she’s determined to find out who he has become…

 

* * *

 

**_ September 10, 2022 _ **

 

Somehow, old habits become renewed. A few days after their first meeting in five years, she’s on her way to the Historical Society Museum, carrying a container of leftover pasta. Until she moved out of her parents’ house a few years ago, it was the only thing she could cook without burning the whole kitchen down, but thankfully Bellamy’s always been a sucker for carbs. To him, it’s the very essence of comfort food, which is why she used to have some handy at all times in case he showed up at her front door feeling down.

Today, however, he isn’t feeling down. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, but it turns out that her bringing him lunch only makes his day better. It’s a sunny September afternoon as they sit on the leaf-covered grass in Central Park, enjoying the taste of the good old memories and the scent of fall that clings to the air around them. 

“Why did you decide to look for a job here?” she asks and watches a blush creep into his brown skin afterwards. 

“My friends forced me to. I met these two assholes in college, Nathan Miller and John Murphy… One day, they found the necklace that you gave me and decided to interrogate me to find out what the ‘C’ stood for. In the end, once I started talking about it, I…” He looks at her, and then at the trees. “I fucking lost it…. And I guess they felt bad for me, because for months they’d urge me to apply for a job in New York once I’d completed my degree.”

His shift at the museum ends at 5:30 p.m. and they decide to meet up at Times Square. When he appears overwhelmed by the sea of people, she tells him that it’s much more beautiful once darkness falls and the starlight tries to compete with the colorful city billboards and commercials. Because he’s just moved to the state, Bellamy hasn’t experienced all of its secrets yet. Fortunately, he has her. 

“Do you wanna explore with me, Bellamy Blake?”  

Grinning, he takes her hand, interlacing their fingers in the same way that he used to when they were kids. It’s strange that she still remembers these things, but some sensations never leave your bloodstream. As he leans a little closer, he says, “Lead the way…”

_Oh, hell yes._ Clarke shows him a couple of her favorite places in the city, some of which might appear insignificant to other people. Just outside of Central Park, there’s a bench on which someone has carved a slice of pizza, and she doesn’t know why it reminds her of their relationship, but it does somehow. Then she takes him to a frozen yogurt place just so they can have a long conversation afterwards about how they think ice cream is much better.

She snaps a Polaroid of him as he’s frowning at his tub of froyo as if he has never been more disappointed in his life. [Caption, written in blue pen: _No need for love triangles. Bellamy & ice cream = Soulmates 4ever]_

On the subway, they tap their feet in synch with the live jazz tunes of a trumpet, and when he hugs her before she leaves, she writes _forever_ across the skin at the back of his neck with her fingertip, hoping that he doesn’t notice.

 

* * *

 

**_ September 14, 2022 _ **

**__ **

Because Bellamy doesn’t believe that she can cook anything that isn’t pasta, Clarke invites him to her apartment for dinner to prove him wrong. In fact, they even bet on it; if he loses, he owes her a drink, which is somewhat different from the old favorite: _I’ll bet you a chocolate bar!_ It’s as if the world has been flipped, because for once it’s not her who’s sitting on the kitchen counter as he cooks — this time it’s the other way around, and the cans of root beer have been swapped for red wine. Maybe the two lifetimes have collided, melted together like raindrops on a window. 

“I will give you this: it smells really good,” he admits, looking at the pan of barbecue chicken and rice. 

Arching one eyebrow, Clarke tries to suppress the mischievous smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth while she dips a teaspoon into the sauce and presents it in front of him. “Here, have a taste.” 

His stubbornness makes him hesitate for a few seconds before he accepts what’s offered to him, and she can’t help but grin when his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, clearly approving, “Are you afraid to lose, Bellamy?” Although she’s challenging him, he shakes his head, his smile soft. 

“If the rest of the meal tastes anywhere near as good as that sauce, you deserve that drink.”

She can only chuckle at that.

  

Ten minutes later, they are sitting on her bed, which also serves as a couch, drinking wine and talking over dinner, which brings back even more memories of eating Bellamy’s home-cooked meals in her living room. Honestly, it feels really good to be able to make something for him now, because every time her parents weren’t home she counted on him to make her something that didn’t contain pasta.

“Your apartment is awesome, Clarke,” Bellamy remarks, even though he hasn’t seen more than her kitchen and her living/bedroom. After thanking him, she realizes that this place is probably much bigger than anywhere he has ever lived. 

“Did you do the graffiti yourself?” 

He’s referring to the art on the red brick wall behind them: the countries of the world in white on a black night sky background. As she nods, he beams, clearly impressed but not surprised. Since she drew him as Augustus when they were children, Bellamy has been a huge fan of her artwork, encouraging her to continue creating whenever her motivation hit a low point. 

While they work together on the dishes, Clarke tells him how much of a pain it was to create that wall, that it took her a year of planning and six months of painting. In the end, though, it’s her favorite wall, which makes the work worth it. She’s really trying to tell Bellamy everything about the years that he’s missed, although she understands that it will never bring them back. Two hours and a bottle of wine later, they’ve talked too much about that, and Clarke realizes something despite her tipsy state. 

“You know what, who the fuck gives a shit about time? All of the geniuses in this world say it’s an illusion anyway. There is no present, no damn past; every moment we’ve ever shared is happening _right now._ At this second, you’re in the tree, looking for Olympus. I’m cleaning the cut by your temple. You’re kissing me, and I’m sobbing into the phone, wishing to be close to you…” 

When he kisses her, his lips downy against hers, it feels like she’s dreaming, drowning in warmth as her heart flutters against her ribcage. Instantly, her fingertips bury themselves in the chaotic curls of his hair and she sighs into his mouth. At first, it’s an utterly gentle kiss, his touch as delicate as a rose petal in spring, but as soon as she whimpers, keen for some kind of friction, Bellamy pushes her carefully, causing her back to collide with the soft duvet.

Then he’s between her legs, kissing fire down her throat, which has her eyelids fluttering shut and her head spinning faster than a thousand miles per hour. Moaning, Clarke pulls him in for a passionate kiss as her breathing slowly grows heavier. Soon, she senses that her lips are slightly bruised and it sends chills through her entire body, making her tremble with desire while Bellamy pulls her shirt over her head, letting it drop to the floor like a leaf in autumn. Unapologetically, his lips map her chest, rediscovering all of her curves, but something makes them pause as soon as they reach her ribcage.

“You got that tattoo,” Bellamy notes, his voice a thousand kinds of wrecked. Running his fingertips across it, he breathes hard, clearly moved.

_Still exploring_

That’s what it says, and there’s an uncolored and small yet detailed oak leaf beneath it. No one understands the symbolism except him: he happened to be sitting in an oak tree when they first met in elementary school, when she declared herself an explorer for the first time.

“You like it?” 

“Clarke…I love it.”

With that, he places a chaste kiss to the tattoo, then one to her lips, nose and jawline. In the minute that passes afterwards, the atmosphere changes drastically, until she’s not even disappointed when he states, “We’re not having sex tonight.” Also, it sounds more like a promise than a rejection, which is just what it turns out to be as he continues, “Whether the time that has passed is actually an illusion, I want us to do it right now. No awkwardness, no rush and no more goddamn tears.” 

Clarke nods, reaching for her shirt on the floor. “What are we gonna do then?” 

“Do you know any good bars?”

 

* * *

 

The next couple of hours pass in a blur of colorful lights and pop tunes blasting from a pair of giant speakers, turning the atmosphere electric. In the end, that’s the excuse Clarke uses for dancing so close to him that she can feel his heart beating to the rhythm of the music through his shirt. Judging from the easy smile that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth, he really doesn’t mind. She finds that this is the moment where the line between friends and lovers becomes unclear; it doesn’t matter _what_ they are to each other, as long as they _are._ For many years, they haven’t been anything but the everlasting memories burning in one another’s hearts, but she’ll never let him be reduced to that again. That’s the only thing she knows for sure.

The entire night, they’re pretty much glued together, laughing in synch, playing a pathetic game of darts (which _she_ wins, obviously), downing a few shots of tequila by the bar at the same time. In fact, the only minutes that they spend apart are the ones where he’s in the bathroom and she’s left alone by the counter. Of course, this is where the evening starts to go to shit… 

… Because some aggravating white dude decides to take the seat next to her and asks repeatedly if he can buy her a drink, which is by far the worst way to hit on someone. It’s basically the same as walking straight up to someone you’ve never met before and admitting, “I know that someone like you will only be into me if I bribe you with alcohol or try to get you drunk” _._ She’s a college senior and has lost count of how many times people have tried to pull that shit on her.

Nevertheless, it’s not _terrible_ unless they — like this asshole — refuse to take no for an answer. In the matter of two minutes, Clarke has gone from politely rejecting his offer to being an inch away from kicking him in the balls, because he decides to touch her, putting his arm around her shoulders and nearly crushing the back of her neck with the force of it.

Suddenly, he backs away, and she realizes that it’s because Bellamy has tapped him on the shoulder. “Listen here, you asshole,” he begins, clearly fuming behind his fake smile, “You have an easy choice. Either you learn to take no for an answer or I kick your ass so fucking hard that you won’t be able to walk straight for a year… Got it?”

But that’s not even the best part, because once the guy has nodded and is about to slip away like the snake that he is, Bellamy grabs him by the sleeve. “By the way, you’re lucky that I lost my patience before she did. Now, _fuck off_.”

She knows that she shouldn’t be turned on by Bellamy’s anger, but she fucking is and even though she finds it shameful, it has her heart beating faster for some reason. Most likely, it’s because he didn’t use this situation to be possessive, he legitimately stated that he was trying to save the guy’s ass because he knew that she wouldn’t hesitate to kick his teeth in. _What a man._  

“Let’s leave?” 

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here,” he agrees, holding the door open for her as they walk into the night.

 

Laughing, they decide to resume one of their old traditions because there’s an ice cream parlor nearby that is open at this ungodly hour for some reason, but it happens to be perfect for them. 

“We should’ve gone to a gay bar,” Clarke says, thinking out loud. 

“I’m pretty sure that there are assholes at gay bars, too.”

Well, she can’t argue with that. In this world, there are assholes everywhere, which is why she’s grateful that the man who’s walking next to her right now isn’t one. 

When they are walking to the subway, slightly drunk, Clarke snaps a Polaroid of Bellamy, who is so preoccupied with his cherry/coffee ice cream that he doesn’t notice. [Caption written in black eyeliner _: Reunited and it feels so good…]_

 

* * *

 

**_ Sunday, September 15, 2022 _ **

 

Clarke doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the first thing that she feels, even before she’s fully roused, is the soft material of his shirt against her cheek. When her eyelids flutter open at the sensation, it hits her that he _slept in her apartment._ At least all of their clothes are still on, as if they fell straight into bed after walking through the front door. Despite knowing that he’s a pretty light sleeper, Clarke figures that her playing a little with his hair won’t wake him up. God, she missed his hair, which sounds like a strange thing to say, but she would have her hands buried in it every time they hugged and run her fingertips through it to tease him. Once, she even cut it for him because his mother had neither the time nor the money for the hairdresser. Let’s just say, it won’t happen again…

In the end, it does wake him though. He cracks one eye open and smiles, which has her remembering how stunning he looks in the morning, a cosmos of sunbeams and freckles across bronze skin, the galaxies within his heart expanding until they overflow and nebulas flood the sheets.

“Why are you here?” She teases, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I’m here to make breakfast. You practically begged me, last night… You don’t remember?” 

Shaking her head, Clarke tries to remember, but the headache has her memory blocked even if it isn’t otherwise that bad. “You never get hungover?” 

At that, he laughs, leaving the bed. On the short way to the kitchen, he glances at her over his shoulder, an amused grin sticking to his face. “Not really after college. I befriended two guys who loved to get me drunk on cheap beer and talk about sappy things.”

She’s about to ask him to tell her more about those so-called _sappy things_ when he disappears into the kitchen and turns on the radio. _Jazz, of course. That’s perfect for a slow Sunday morning…_

“You’re not gonna join me? Come on, Princess. Defy the hangover.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Clarke slips out of bed, then her jeans because those things are far too uncomfortable. Once she’s dropped them, she’s left wearing a slightly oversized gray t-shirt that barely covers her bright blue panties.

“I’m not a princess,” she muses, peeking around the corner. “I’m a badass.”

Keeping an eye on the scrambled eggs in the pan, Bellamy grins and pats the countertop. “Indeed you are, but right now you happen to be badass _and_ hungover.” As soon as she’s sitting in the same spot that he did yesterday evening, Bellamy pours a glass of water and strides to her with it. Handing it to her, he places a soft kiss under her jaw, which in spite of everything nearly has her jumping in surprise. 

After last night, she’d told herself not to expect any more kissing. As it turns out, she didn’t have to do that. In response, Clarke nuzzles his earlobe, prompting him to reach out and turn the stove off quickly, and if that isn’t a sign, she doesn’t know what it is. Cupping his face, she can feel the stubble on his cheeks, sending vibrations through her body. A second later, those vibrations push her forward, have her lips colliding with his. As she chuckles against his mouth, Bellamy’s hands slip underneath her t-shirt to hug her waist.

“See? We’re actually good at this stuff.” 

Pulling away, Bellamy’s gaze softens as he says, “I’m pretty sure we would’ve been good at this when we were teenagers, too, if we’d had the chance…”

She notices the sadness that’s creeping into his smile, so she kisses him chastely to cut it off. “Bellamy, our chance is _now._ ” 

There’s no adjective in the world that could possibly describe the amount of love in the way that he looks at her once those words have emerged from her lips.

 

It’s one of those _very_ rainy September Sundays that allow for laziness. Since the weather clearly doesn’t want them to eat ice cream or take walks in the park, they decide to stay indoors and have a _Friends_ marathon with lots of commercial breaks, which they spend cuddling in the subtlest way possible — just as they used to do when they were teenagers, fingertips dancing across skin as they lean against each other. Also, the glasses that he wears when watching TV are really fun to steal.

“Hey, I haven’t asked you about this, but I’m kind of curious… Did your parents ever find out about what happened between us?” Bellamy asks while he’s trying to braid her wavy hair, and Clarke is thankful that he can’t see her face as she feels heat color her cheeks. 

“My mom did, but not because I wanted her to. She walked in on me after our last call, and I can only imagine what a shock it must have been for her, to find me naked on my bed, sobbing into the phone. Of course, she was incredibly confused, didn’t know why I would do something like that, but I think it dawned on her the moment I told her that we’d slept together. The only problem was that I was furious, bitter and didn’t want to talk to her at all. In the end, she forced me to, and we had this long conversation about it and she let me say whatever I felt like while the tears just ran down my cheeks. Not a fun day, but I needed it.” 

_She remembers holding his hoodie to her nostrils to inhale whatever remained of him as tears soaked the fabric._

_Her mother saying, “You never forget your first love…”_

_And hearing herself reply, “How would you know anything about that? You married yours! I don’t get to do that!”_

With a kiss to the side of her throat, Bellamy reminds her of his presence, reminds her that their chance is _now._ As that thought blends with the memory, Clarke realizes that she’d go through hell before she’d waste it… 

 

That night, as they settle on her bed for hours of Netflix, she changes into his old hoodie, causing him to sneak so many glances at her that he forgets to pay attention to the documentary about ancient Greece. The ending credits have just started rolling when he pulls her down to lie next to him. For an entire minute, Bellamy can only look at her, the color of his eyes softened by awe and affection. 

“You kept it…”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s really comfortable,” she teases, making him grin. Then, he pulls her closer, letting his lips hover an inch from hers. Frankly, it’s borderline torture that he moves his head back every time she tries to kiss him, chuckling when she pouts at him. In the end, she breathes “ _Screw you”_ against his neck, but it doesn’t help. He only laughs, his expression morphing into sheer brightness. 

“Soon enough, Clarke. Soon enough…”

 

* * *

 

_Soon enough…_ Well, three weeks later, they still haven’t had sex, even though they spend almost all of their spare time together and kiss constantly. Also, he showers at her place frequently — the shower in the small apartment that he’s currently renting barely has five minutes of hot water — and he hasn’t even asked her to join him yet. Clarke has no idea if he’s being this frustrating on purpose, but she’s not sure how much longer she’ll be able to take it.

She knows that she’s screwed when she draws him for a class in _human anatomy_. Of course, she’s forced to sketch from memory and imagination, because it’s been five years since she saw him naked. Therefore, it doesn’t turn out like she wants it to, as most of the edges and curves have faded in her memory. 

Although she knows that it’s not accurate, he looks like the young man from her memories, but a little rougher, more mature, which perfectly describes what she feels when she lays her hand upon his heart at night. 

_He’s older, but not withered._

* * *

 

**_ October 10, 2022 _ **

  

In the end, it’s the drawing that changes everything. It starts when Clarke comes home to find a brand new set of color pencils in her art studio, pretty pastels as well as earth tones. A sticky note is plastered on the box with a note written in Bellamy’s block-letter handwriting: _THESE WILL BE NEEDED. DON’T THANK ME… YET ;)_

After she’s spent at least three minutes trying to interpret that damned winking smiley at the end of the note, the sound of a text knocks her back to reality. Her heart flutters when she realizes that it’s from him, but it skips three whole beats as she reads it: _Are you gonna make me wait forever? I know you’re in the studio. Tell me that I don’t have to come and get you._

At first, Clarke’s too baffled to make much sense of it, but then she hears a clearly deliberate cough from the bedroom that gets her moving. Once she’s there, however, her jaw nearly drops to the hardwood floor, because Bellamy’s on the bed, clearly naked although he’s been modest enough to cover himself from the waist down with a thin blanket. Flabbergasted, she blinks about fifty times in a row, watches the grin on his face grow.

“You didn’t bring the pencils?” he asks, faking disappointment as he sighs, “You need to work on your accuracy after all.”

_The audacity._ He knows how much she wants him, which is what has caused the smug expression on his face right now, and he’s going to attempt to tease her even more? _No way in hell…. Wait —_  

“What are you talking about?”   

“The drawing, Clarke. I didn’t mean to see it, I swear, but it fell out of your bag and while I am flattered, of course, you’ve got to admit that you’ve got me all wrong.”    

_Fuck._ After battling embarrassment for a minute, Clarke decides to be just as sassy to even the playing field. Pulling her shirt off, she replies, “How would I know? I haven’t seen anything yet. I had no reference.”

Then she struts towards him, all confidence on the outside even if her heart is fluttering hard enough to stir her entire ribcage. It’s been five years since the last time, and now it’s about to happen again, unless he decides to pull some bullshit move and make her draw him first. To make sure, she leans forward until her breath ghosts over his full lips as she counters, “Are you gonna give me one?” 

The tension is unbearable at this point, causing her to wonder if it will make the walls crumble around them, but luckily it doesn’t come to that. Instead, Bellamy arches an eyebrow at her ( _damn, this level of confidence is too hot, she can barely take it)_ and pulls her downward until she lands on top of him. His calloused thumb brushing over the tattoo, Bellamy quickly flips them over, making it easier for himself to pull her pants down her legs. 

“Jeans are the _worst,_ Clarke.”

She rolls her eyes at him, trying to suppress the grin that wants to dominate her entire face, “Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t dress accordingly, but I didn’t know that you were planning to fuck me.”

At that, Bellamy groans against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, sending vibrations through her entire body, before sucking an open-mouthed kiss onto it, and suddenly Clarke can’t hold it back anymore, her moan turning into laughter. “I can’t fucking believe that the inaccuracy of my drawing was what finally made you fall into bed with me. I didn’t know you were so vain, Bellamy.”

“Shut up.” 

Thinking back, she remembers how it took them nearly an hour to fully undress before their first time. It’s not like that now, even though it’s been years since they’ve seen each other’s bodies. Somehow, she still fears that he might dissolve in front of her, that the edges of his arms and the curve of his smile will turn into mere dust. Illogically, she’s afraid that everything that she has experienced with Bellamy in the past month has been nothing but a long, cruel dream. Being here with him, touching him again, _it doesn’t feel quite real._

They’re sitting in front of one another, naked, flushed, eyes soft. That’s when he takes her hand, pulls it towards his mouth to kiss her wrist, the bottom of her palm as well as her knuckles. Eyelids fluttering shut, Clarke takes _his_ hand to place it over her heart. 

“I have a confession to make,” he says, voice low. “I was in love with you. Fuck, I was head over heels in love with you. At seven, even though I didn’t know what it meant. At ten. At nineteen, and _now_ at twenty-four.” 

Tears well up in her eyes, her heart softening under his touch. Leaning forward, Clarke kisses his neck while twirling the ‘C’ charm on his necklace between her fingertips. “And you didn’t think I felt the same? I was eighteen, distraught, and I told my mother that she took me away from the person that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

Before he can say anything, she captures his lips with her own, letting him know that they should let their bodies talk for a while, since _they have all the time in the world…_

 

Let’s just say that she’s suddenly thankful for the fact that Bellamy had a lot of sex in college, because _fuck…_ The noises that he can pull from her throat are ones that she never realized were trapped there in the first place. All the while, he maintains a soft approach, but it’s still the sexiest lovemaking she has ever experienced. The muscles of his back flex under her touch; his heavy breath collides with the sensitive skin of her chest and his fingertips have tangled in the golden waves of her hair. 

Although she’s not as experienced as he is, Clarke also gets the opportunity to show him how much she has matured over the years, making him grasp at the sheets like a lifeline.

They seal everything with a passionate kiss before rolling onto their backs. For a moment, they simply try to catch their breaths, but then Bellamy utters, “Clarke, you’re fucking _celestial._ ”

“Celestial?” she repeats as her face is overtaken by pure happiness.

Shrugging, he places a kiss into her hair. “College did that to me.” 

“And I’m not complaining…”

 

During the next few hours, Clarke sits on the bed with her sketchpad, working on an improved drawing of him. To create the perfect match for his skin tone, she uses all of the different brown shades that he has bought for her — and she spends a good ten minutes aligning the stars across his cheeks accurately. The way his muscles curve, the way his curly hair falls into his eyes slightly and his smile spreads across his face, putting sparks in his eyes. Truly, he is the most breathtaking masterpiece she has ever seen — body, mind, heart and all. Even now, she doesn’t feel like she can do him justice, because it would be impossible to color every layer that he’s made of. Hell, the greatest artist in the world wouldn’t be able to do that…

When she decides that she can’t make it any better, Clarke smiles at him, to which he responds by moving a strand of hair from her face. He admires the flush in her cheeks, the focused cease in her brow that hasn’t quite disappeared yet, and when his thumb brushes the beauty mark above her lip, the words simply blurt out of her. “Move in with me.” 

His smile grows at that. “Really?” 

“ _Yes._ Your rental apartment is shitty, no offense. It’s the size of a shoebox and there’s next to no hot water, and I have plenty of room.” 

For a moment, he pretends to ponder to make her chuckle, then says, “I’ll bring all of my crap in cardboard boxes. Tomorrow? Do you need to write a contract or something?”

“Only to let you know that this is _no_ platonic arrangement.”

Grinning, Bellamy pulls her down for a kiss that lasts for a few minutes. Honestly, Clarke doesn’t remember the last time that she was as happy as she is right now, fireworks in a billion colors going off in her chest — it’s _euphoria_ in the truest sense of the word. Three months ago, she was devastated by the possibility of having lost him forever and of her memories of him slowly fading from her mind, because she thought she was never going to see him again. The only thing she had of him was an old hoodie and a box of Polaroids.

In this moment, she has _all_ of him. All of the memories from the past and the new ones that can be seen along the horizon when she looks out of the window and the setting sun smiles at them. 

And it says, _Never say never, kids. Never say never…_


End file.
